Sometime Today - 02
Title: Sometime Today (2/5)
Rating: PG-13 (T)
Words: 3383
Fandom: Star Wars - Orig!Character
Pairings: None
Warnings: Language
Beta: mechamagina
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money. Etcetera. :|
Summary: She's not a compulsive liar. Seriously.
EDITED: 10.05.2009
(Fan Fiction List)
(Start from the Beginning?)
“For a compulsive liar-”
“Hey!”
“-you’re telling an awfully realistic story,” said the man whose hair was a red so bloody in color it could not possibly be natural. The ex-healer turned bartender resisted the urge to sigh and handed him a glass of shuura juice.
“I’m not a-”
“Yes you are,” interjected his gloved friend.
Had Yain’s hands not been busy balancing a large tray of assorted drinks, and one bowl of warra nuts, she would have thrown them in the air in frustration. She still considered it. “I’ll have you know, I am embellishing the story.” Her heavily trimmed nails tapped irritably against the underside of the tray for emphasis.
The gloved one grinned. “A panic attack isn’t embellishment.”
Behind the pair seated at the bar, the Bith band fidgeted with their instruments in preparation for their performance. Feedback squealed over the sound system, much to the irritation of everyone inside, including the Bith. But despite the temporary lack of entertainment, a steady stream of people continued to enter the cantina, filling up the small, seedy joint. The noisy rumble of the crowd only rose after the band finally started their first song.
In Nar Shaddaa’s Corellian Sector, all day was a good time for a drink, but Yain much preferred to work the evenings for the increased activity and the music. It helped that she often made a hefty sum from her customer’s tips-nearly twice the amount of the day shift-and heard quite a bit from the land of Rumor Mill, as she liked to call it. Add on her seemingly natural ability to break up fights and toss out scum twice her size, and she had the perfect job. Except for the smell… she didn’t think she’d ever get used to that.
“Did you expect jumping jawas and Jedi heroics? Because you’re in for a grand disappointment, buddy.” She leaned over and placed a cup of Blue Milk in front of the gloved customer. Neither of them ever ordered alcohol, which was fine with Yain-two less drunks to worry about at the end of the day could only be a plus in her book.
“I could do with a few jumping jawas,” the redhead joked. “Or an exciting cave collapse, while our plucky hero narrowly avoids death-by-giant-ice-spikes.”
“And defeats a legion of Separatists, even if they have no business on Hoth,” added his friend.
“Sounds like something out of an action-holo,” Yain quipped and traveled down the length of the bar circle, placing drinks down and scooping up credits with an air of someone born for it. The bar’s counter easily spanned five meters in diameter at its widest, a lopsided oval placed at the center of a gloomy, poorly lit, smoke filled cantina complete with Bith band, two Twi’lek dancers, and several Sabacc tables. Yain paused to wave at one of the dancers, and tried to avoid noticing the escalating shouts from the card players.
She finished the loop and slapped the tray down on the flat top of the durasteel chemical storage unit sitting at the core of the ring. “I hope those bishwags don’t start a firefight over a round of cards again.”
The gloved man smirked over his Blue Milk. “Again?”
“I take it we missed the excitement.” The redhead arched a brow and took a sip of his juice.
The bartender rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yeah. Excitement. I’ll let you figure out who had to toss those koochus out of here, and you get three guesses.”
An awkward silence fell over the conversation as the two men glanced at each other, sharing the same bewildered expression. A clever observation regarding tongues being tied died on her lips as her brain suddenly screeched to a halt. From the slightly off glint in their eyes, right down to their facial structure, the men appeared strikingly similar in every way. If the gloved man shaved his beard, or if the redhead wasn’t a redhead but an dark haired, pale, brown eyed man… Oh. Oh.
It took her a moment too late to realize she had raised a hand to her mouth, eyes wide in recognition. The gloved man appeared confused and turned to glance over his shoulder, apparently looking for whatever caught her attention, while the redhead smiled. Yain found she couldn’t speak, and simply pointed at one, then the other. He nodded.
The silence dragged on as she floundered for the right words.
“So?” the redhead prompted as the gloved man returned to his drink.
“S-so?” she echoed.
“What happened?”
Taking a breath to calm her nerves, Yain reached for her recently refilled glass of Blue Milk and gulped half of it down. Sugar… I need sugar. “At the last firefight, or my escape story?” she asked, barely pulling off the nonchalant act.
“Which one’s more exciting?” the gloved customer asked.
“Probably the former, at the rate she’s going,” the other chuckled.
They sound so different, she silently marveled, and then delivered herself a mental slap. Get yourself together, koochu. “Oh yeah?” said Yain. “I’ll show you exciting.”
Yain’s future looked bleak. She clenched her gloved fists a few times in frustration, unable to accept the outcome of her observations. I can’t have come all this way for nothing. But it seemed she had, and that thought nearly broke her resolve.
She shifted against the crate pressing awkwardly into her spine through her vest and armor. Frustration grounded away inside her skull, the beginnings of a headache slowly edged towards her temples. For all the good her Jedi training did, her grasp of the Force during tense moments-aside from medical emergencies-was nearly nonexistent.
Once again, her numerous failings spread out before her. Yet instead of focusing on them as she was want to do, she instead found herself wondering about the crates. What matter of so great importance on this backwater ice planet required this many droids? And if the contents held such significance, should she have spent less time worrying and more time acting before additional company showed up?
Water was beginning to soak through her shoes, and her body could not stop shaking. It’s too kriffing cold. Still crouched down in the snow, the young healer turned on her heels and examined her cover a little closer. The unorganized stack of assorted crates had gathered a thin layer of snow, as if they had only recently been set out to brave the weather. She spared a glance at the droids, who continued to remain oblivious of her.
Adrenaline pumped in her veins. Her heart hammered in her chest. This was suicide. But no other plan came to mind-short of surrender, and she had seen enough of droid hospitality to last a lifetime-so, at the risk of being detected, she bent to the will of her curiosity and eased open the nearest crate.
Time seemed to freeze as her eyes fell on the sight of a plethora of weaponry encased in foam padding. A hefty collection of mineral samples, all neatly labeled and boxed off to the side, next caught her attention. She reached a gloved hand to the contents, eyes wide in realization, when her instincts screamed at her.
Suddenly the world came into sharp focus. Blaster fire erupted around her head, pinging against the crates and shattering the duracrete wall only a few meters away. Debris peppered her back as she randomly grabbed the nearest weapon she could get a hold of and slid back behind the crates. In her lap dropped a large, and surprisingly heavy, gray launcher of some kind. Yain cursed the Jedi, though they were hardly to blame for her incompetence involving weaponry.
She ran an appraising hand over the weapon, and then hefted the gun, pressing it into her shoulder, to aim over her cover. The kickback nearly sent her sprawling as the weapon emitted a loud PING and fired a canister of some kind. She didn’t quite have time to wonder what exactly. The projectile exploded upon impact and sent hundreds of razor sharp metal shards in every direction, completely obliterating all the droids closest to the unlucky target.
Readjusting her grip on the weapon, Yain pressed the end to her hip and risked leaving cover to fire another round. This time she kept her balance, forgoing the Force for rapid improvisation. She was beyond the point of fear then, her body nearly running on autopilot as she ducked behind the loading ramp of the first, highly intimidating, angular spaceship.
Though she heard the droids speaking, she could not make out their voices over the howling wind. Her lungs heaved for more air, and she jumped out from behind the ramp to fire another round into the remaining droids. Blaster fire singed past her ear, while another hit the hidden armor plate protecting her shoulder. The force knocked her back a meter and she landed in the snow, gasping.
Oh my skies, that hurt! Pain throbbed in the now smoking section of her vest. Yain rolled over and forced her self to her feet, pulling the steaming weapon up as she went. The spaceport appeared clear, aside from the mass of rusty orange droid parts littering the ground. But she knew better than to assume she was safe, so she kept the launcher close by as she creeped along the boundaries of the port. A wave of intense dizziness swept her, followed by the resumed shaking of her muscles. Her teeth clattered in her mouth as she limped over to another crate and unceremoniously popped the lid open.
A string of five grenades labeled Fragmentation rested at the top of the assorted contents. They left her feeling uneasy, but she attached them to her supply belt anyway and moved on. Several medpacs rested underneath a layer of boxed mineral samples, and she grabbed those too.
What am I doing? Yain felt as though her heart pounded behind her eyes. Her hands still shook, and she felt on the verge of collapse. If she had ever felt worse, she could not remember it. Somehow she found herself staring not into the crate of weapons but at her discarded survival pack lying halfheartedly to the side. A fine layer of snow had already gathered over the material, making the straps slick and difficult to grasp as she attempted to one-handedly sling it over her shoulder.
Fortunately for her, she was saved from further wrestling with the pack when an abrupt and loud CLANK echoed from the droids’ freighter. Her damp, gloved hands took hold of the launcher as she slowly turned towards the docking ramp. Bright, yellow light flickered on the long, gray durasteel as three large, silver battle droids emerged from the ship, arms raised and glowing. Her mouth dropped and her sob caught in her throat.
This… this is not my day, she despaired.
Yain crouched low behind the crates, ears strained to pick up the whirs and clicks of joints as the droids exited the Corellian vessel. Her instincts suddenly screamed to move, and then she was flying through the air, surrounded by the shattered remains of durasteel crates, mineral samples, and searing hot air.
She hit the ground rolling. Snow clogged her filtration mask and blocked her visor. Her hands slipped in every direction as she struggled to climb out of a snow drift. The world rang in her ears, muted and silent even as the ice shattered around her. Reacting blindly to her situation, she miraculously latched on to what little of the Force she could, and propelled her self out of the hole.
White streaked her vision as she twirled in the air, landing behind a meter high duracrete wall. Pain shot up her limbs and her legs buckled, sending her sprawling to the packed ice. She gasped, forcing her injured back to the wall and cradled the launcher against her chest. Her gloves tore the mask from her face, and then ripped apart one of the spare medpacs she managed to grab earlier. Three short single-use syringes fell into her lap, glinting in the light and swinging from a thin string. With a shaky hand, and one good leg, she managed to peer over the top of the wall. The three droids stood in a line and turned immediately towards her direction.
Unhooking one of the grenades, she activated the small device and hurled it over the wall. The round object bounced over ice covered durasteel and slid to a stop at the legs of the closest droid. Yain dropped behind the wall.
“What that?” a muffled mechanical voice asked.
Then the ground shook violently as chunks of rock and metal debris flew over her head. Blaster shots exploded against the wall and rained bits of broken ice into her face. She yanked another grenade and blindly lobbed it over the wall. Another ground shaking explosion rocked her world, and the firing stopped. The silence stretched on for what felt like hours, but she didn’t trust her self to look over the wall, and lobbed a third fragmentation grenade just to be sure.
Debris fell heavily around her short wall, kicking up loose snow into the air. The freezing temperatures bit at her exposed face. For a moment, the healer could only stare blankly at one of the metal clumps, eventually recognizing it to be the mangled remains of a droid’s head, its faded lights pointed directly at her.
Exhaustion finally caught up. A soft giggled escaped her frozen lips. It nearly escalated to full on hysterics, but the sharp jabs of pain from her back cut her short. The adrenaline of the fight wore out and soon the jabs turned into full on fire. She switched into a clinical state of mind, switching off her tidal waves of emotion, in an effort to quickly assess her physical condition. Blood stained the entirety of her pants from her right thigh downward, and her back screamed with the slightest movement.
Slowly, Yain picked up a painkiller. The liquid sloshed inside the syringe, refracting the light in numerous different colors. Her hands shook fiercely as she struggled to smooth the cloth of her leg and then jammed the needle past the hem, burying the point deep in her thigh. Almost immediately, the fire in her limbs softened.
She then rolled out the blood-loss control agent, followed by a stimulant, and repeated the process two more times. As the meds shifted through her system, Yain focused on breathing. It felt almost as though she were drowning, though she filed that under severe emotional distress.
Oh, she was distressed all right. But she couldn’t sit around and debate her psychological status now. With a grunt, she hooked the medpac to her belt and used the heavy launcher as a crutch to stand.
The spaceport looked little less than the aftermath of war zone, which she supposed was an accurate description. Craters dotted the landing pad, along with ragged chunks of ice, streaks of black fuel, and varying shades of droid parts. But all she could focus on was the Corellian ship’s loading ramp, shining in all its glory directly ahead.
Everything hurt. Everything. But she knew she’d be insane to de-robe and treat her wounds with bacta in this temperature. So she pushed on, the weapon in her hands making soft clunks as she scaled the metal ramp. Her boots left uneven durasteel and stepped onto smoothed grating. Yain paused inside the ship, instantly feeling the ice crystals melt off her cheeks as her eyes burned and adjusted to the fluorescent lights lining the hull.
She could have cried.
“You are not authorized to be here,” shouted a mechanical voice. "Identify yourself"
“Intruder!” exclaimed another. "Eliminate target!"
“Roger roger.”
A blinding white flash overtook her senses and she experienced-with a detached sense of horror-the strange sensation of her chest being blown apart. Her eyes stared blankly at the droids as she bodily fell forward and embraced death.
“Hey wait a second!” gasped the gloved customer. “That’s impossible!”
Yain shrugged, continuing to rub a clean rag against a streaked cup. She paused to admire her handiwork as the red haired customer smacked his hand down on his friend's-brother’s?-shoulder, and silently took note of the few words she could understand
“She jurkadi with us. Your mirshe tay'lud, di’kut?” he asked, voice choked with laughter.
The gloved customer frowned, turning his empty mug in his hands. “Refill, please,” he said finally, apparently ignoring his brother's comment.
“Me too,” said the redhead.
Yain grinned. “Right away, boys.”
The three lapsed into silence as Yain proceeded to mix the drinks. The noise in the cantina only seemed to amplify when she didn’t have a conversation to concentrate on, and the collective voices of a crowd began to give her a migraine. It didn’t help that the Bith band failed to produce adequate music for the night, and instead their instruments belted out what sounded like the dying cries of a neutered bantha.
As she poured the redhead’s juice, and poured Blue Milk into his friend's mug, along with her own, she silently noted that they had taken to talking between themselves in a language she vaguely recognized. Of course, that wasn’t saying much, as she knew more than the occasional multi-lingual expletive and a good amount of Huttese. She decided to feign ignorance and returned to cleaning the mug.
“Tion'solet ca’nara are we go'naasi olar?”
“We can ba'slanar jii, if you copaani.”
“I copaani susulur kyr of gehat'ik.”
“We shi ru'vaabi.”
“She jahaati!”
“…she ge'sol'mesh'la for a kyrayc dala.”
“Gedin'la jahaat'dala.” The gloved man’s frown deepened.
The redhead shrugged in response and picked up his drink, flashing Yain a wide smile before taking a sip. The young woman nodded and peered past the two customers, absently watching the two Twi’lek dancers undulating on their platform as she squashed the urge to ask for them to translate. She had a feeling they were discussing her, and a good part of her didn’t want to know just what they were saying.
“You don’t look dead,” the redhead said suddenly. “Maybe a little on the thin side, but you still look… intact.”
Yain started, nearly dropping her drink, and stared at him. He looked innocent enough, even if the threads in the force whirled around him in a flurry of activity. His eyes glanced down for half a second, and then bounced back to her face. She nearly missed it, but the action was enough to cause her face to suddenly heat up in stunned embarrassment.
Beside him, the gloved man snorted into his mug.
A mixture of emotions bubbled under the surface, and she grasped on to her irritation like a lifeline. The bartender set her Blue Milk down and crossed her arms over her chest, one hand pointed directly at the crimson haired offender. “You. You…” There were no words. Her mind blanked.
The customer in question grinned and turned on his stool, lounging against the bar as he stretched his legs out in front of him.
“Ugubaashi!” slurred a drunken Rodian to her right. “Mee jargaa, pateesha.”
Sensing a convenient outlet for her irritation, Yain embraced the opportunity, though she imagined her once-masters at the Jedi Temple would probably have cringed at the sight before dragging her aside for a lecture on the temptations of the Dark Side. The Rodian squealed under her hands as she hopped over the counter and wrapped her fist in the collar of his shirt.
“What did I say, Remo? What did I say?” She shook him. “Bona nai kachu!”
“H-hii chuba da naga?” gasped Remo as he fell off his stool.
Yain shook him again, and dragged him towards the cantina doors. The crowd parted around her easily, no one bothering to spare a glance in her direction. After all, it was business as usual.
“You’ve had enough, anyway. Get going!” With no aid from any power other than her own hard-worked-for strength, she sent the Rodian flying out of the doors and onto the durasteel walkway outside. “E chu ta,” she spat and walked back inside, dusting her hands as she returned to the bar.
(Previous) | (Next)
Possible Points of Reference
Sabacc - a popular card game
Fragmentation Grenade - portable, cheap, explosives
FC-1 Flechette Launcher - projectile launcher
Medpac - first aid kit
Bantha - beasts of burden, found all over the galaxy
Bith - A race of sound sensitive sentients
Rodian - A race of humanoid reptiles
Cantina - the equivalent of a bar or club
Glossary
bishwag - an expletive used to indicate an untrustworthy being
Shuura Juice - juice made from the shuura fruit
koochu - (Huttese) idiot
kriffing - derogatory modifier
Ugubaashi - 'Ukubati' (Huttese) Bartender
Mee jargaa, pateesha. - 'Me yarga, pateesa.' (Huttese) I'm thirsty, sweetie.
Bona nai kachu! - (Huttese) You're in trouble now.
Hi chuba da naga? - (Huttese) What do you want?
E chu ta - (Huttese) offensive expletive
Mando'a
Kaysh jurkadi ti mhi. Gar mirshe tay'lud, di’kut? - She (is) messing around with us. Is your brain taking a nap, idiot?
Tion'solet ca'nara cuyi mhi go'naasi'la olar? - How much time are we wasting here?
Mhi lise ba'slanar jii, meh gar copaani. - We can leave now, if you want.
Ni copaani susulur kyr be gehat'ik. - I want to hear (the) end of (the) story.
Mhi shi ru'vaabi. - We just did.
Kaysh jahaati! - She lies!
Kaysh ge'sol'mesh'la par kyrayc dala. - She's cute for (a) dead woman. (Lit. half beautiful for a...)
Gedin'la jahaat'dala. - Eccentric deceiving woman.
Rating: PG-13 (T)
Words: 3383
Fandom: Star Wars - Orig!Character
Pairings: None
Warnings: Language
Beta: mechamagina
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money. Etcetera. :|
Summary: She's not a compulsive liar. Seriously.
EDITED: 10.05.2009
(Fan Fiction List)
(Start from the Beginning?)
“For a compulsive liar-”
“Hey!”
“-you’re telling an awfully realistic story,” said the man whose hair was a red so bloody in color it could not possibly be natural. The ex-healer turned bartender resisted the urge to sigh and handed him a glass of shuura juice.
“I’m not a-”
“Yes you are,” interjected his gloved friend.
Had Yain’s hands not been busy balancing a large tray of assorted drinks, and one bowl of warra nuts, she would have thrown them in the air in frustration. She still considered it. “I’ll have you know, I am embellishing the story.” Her heavily trimmed nails tapped irritably against the underside of the tray for emphasis.
The gloved one grinned. “A panic attack isn’t embellishment.”
Behind the pair seated at the bar, the Bith band fidgeted with their instruments in preparation for their performance. Feedback squealed over the sound system, much to the irritation of everyone inside, including the Bith. But despite the temporary lack of entertainment, a steady stream of people continued to enter the cantina, filling up the small, seedy joint. The noisy rumble of the crowd only rose after the band finally started their first song.
In Nar Shaddaa’s Corellian Sector, all day was a good time for a drink, but Yain much preferred to work the evenings for the increased activity and the music. It helped that she often made a hefty sum from her customer’s tips-nearly twice the amount of the day shift-and heard quite a bit from the land of Rumor Mill, as she liked to call it. Add on her seemingly natural ability to break up fights and toss out scum twice her size, and she had the perfect job. Except for the smell… she didn’t think she’d ever get used to that.
“Did you expect jumping jawas and Jedi heroics? Because you’re in for a grand disappointment, buddy.” She leaned over and placed a cup of Blue Milk in front of the gloved customer. Neither of them ever ordered alcohol, which was fine with Yain-two less drunks to worry about at the end of the day could only be a plus in her book.
“I could do with a few jumping jawas,” the redhead joked. “Or an exciting cave collapse, while our plucky hero narrowly avoids death-by-giant-ice-spikes.”
“And defeats a legion of Separatists, even if they have no business on Hoth,” added his friend.
“Sounds like something out of an action-holo,” Yain quipped and traveled down the length of the bar circle, placing drinks down and scooping up credits with an air of someone born for it. The bar’s counter easily spanned five meters in diameter at its widest, a lopsided oval placed at the center of a gloomy, poorly lit, smoke filled cantina complete with Bith band, two Twi’lek dancers, and several Sabacc tables. Yain paused to wave at one of the dancers, and tried to avoid noticing the escalating shouts from the card players.
She finished the loop and slapped the tray down on the flat top of the durasteel chemical storage unit sitting at the core of the ring. “I hope those bishwags don’t start a firefight over a round of cards again.”
The gloved man smirked over his Blue Milk. “Again?”
“I take it we missed the excitement.” The redhead arched a brow and took a sip of his juice.
The bartender rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yeah. Excitement. I’ll let you figure out who had to toss those koochus out of here, and you get three guesses.”
An awkward silence fell over the conversation as the two men glanced at each other, sharing the same bewildered expression. A clever observation regarding tongues being tied died on her lips as her brain suddenly screeched to a halt. From the slightly off glint in their eyes, right down to their facial structure, the men appeared strikingly similar in every way. If the gloved man shaved his beard, or if the redhead wasn’t a redhead but an dark haired, pale, brown eyed man… Oh. Oh.
It took her a moment too late to realize she had raised a hand to her mouth, eyes wide in recognition. The gloved man appeared confused and turned to glance over his shoulder, apparently looking for whatever caught her attention, while the redhead smiled. Yain found she couldn’t speak, and simply pointed at one, then the other. He nodded.
The silence dragged on as she floundered for the right words.
“So?” the redhead prompted as the gloved man returned to his drink.
“S-so?” she echoed.
“What happened?”
Taking a breath to calm her nerves, Yain reached for her recently refilled glass of Blue Milk and gulped half of it down. Sugar… I need sugar. “At the last firefight, or my escape story?” she asked, barely pulling off the nonchalant act.
“Which one’s more exciting?” the gloved customer asked.
“Probably the former, at the rate she’s going,” the other chuckled.
They sound so different, she silently marveled, and then delivered herself a mental slap. Get yourself together, koochu. “Oh yeah?” said Yain. “I’ll show you exciting.”
Yain’s future looked bleak. She clenched her gloved fists a few times in frustration, unable to accept the outcome of her observations. I can’t have come all this way for nothing. But it seemed she had, and that thought nearly broke her resolve.
She shifted against the crate pressing awkwardly into her spine through her vest and armor. Frustration grounded away inside her skull, the beginnings of a headache slowly edged towards her temples. For all the good her Jedi training did, her grasp of the Force during tense moments-aside from medical emergencies-was nearly nonexistent.
Once again, her numerous failings spread out before her. Yet instead of focusing on them as she was want to do, she instead found herself wondering about the crates. What matter of so great importance on this backwater ice planet required this many droids? And if the contents held such significance, should she have spent less time worrying and more time acting before additional company showed up?
Water was beginning to soak through her shoes, and her body could not stop shaking. It’s too kriffing cold. Still crouched down in the snow, the young healer turned on her heels and examined her cover a little closer. The unorganized stack of assorted crates had gathered a thin layer of snow, as if they had only recently been set out to brave the weather. She spared a glance at the droids, who continued to remain oblivious of her.
Adrenaline pumped in her veins. Her heart hammered in her chest. This was suicide. But no other plan came to mind-short of surrender, and she had seen enough of droid hospitality to last a lifetime-so, at the risk of being detected, she bent to the will of her curiosity and eased open the nearest crate.
Time seemed to freeze as her eyes fell on the sight of a plethora of weaponry encased in foam padding. A hefty collection of mineral samples, all neatly labeled and boxed off to the side, next caught her attention. She reached a gloved hand to the contents, eyes wide in realization, when her instincts screamed at her.
Suddenly the world came into sharp focus. Blaster fire erupted around her head, pinging against the crates and shattering the duracrete wall only a few meters away. Debris peppered her back as she randomly grabbed the nearest weapon she could get a hold of and slid back behind the crates. In her lap dropped a large, and surprisingly heavy, gray launcher of some kind. Yain cursed the Jedi, though they were hardly to blame for her incompetence involving weaponry.
She ran an appraising hand over the weapon, and then hefted the gun, pressing it into her shoulder, to aim over her cover. The kickback nearly sent her sprawling as the weapon emitted a loud PING and fired a canister of some kind. She didn’t quite have time to wonder what exactly. The projectile exploded upon impact and sent hundreds of razor sharp metal shards in every direction, completely obliterating all the droids closest to the unlucky target.
Readjusting her grip on the weapon, Yain pressed the end to her hip and risked leaving cover to fire another round. This time she kept her balance, forgoing the Force for rapid improvisation. She was beyond the point of fear then, her body nearly running on autopilot as she ducked behind the loading ramp of the first, highly intimidating, angular spaceship.
Though she heard the droids speaking, she could not make out their voices over the howling wind. Her lungs heaved for more air, and she jumped out from behind the ramp to fire another round into the remaining droids. Blaster fire singed past her ear, while another hit the hidden armor plate protecting her shoulder. The force knocked her back a meter and she landed in the snow, gasping.
Oh my skies, that hurt! Pain throbbed in the now smoking section of her vest. Yain rolled over and forced her self to her feet, pulling the steaming weapon up as she went. The spaceport appeared clear, aside from the mass of rusty orange droid parts littering the ground. But she knew better than to assume she was safe, so she kept the launcher close by as she creeped along the boundaries of the port. A wave of intense dizziness swept her, followed by the resumed shaking of her muscles. Her teeth clattered in her mouth as she limped over to another crate and unceremoniously popped the lid open.
A string of five grenades labeled Fragmentation rested at the top of the assorted contents. They left her feeling uneasy, but she attached them to her supply belt anyway and moved on. Several medpacs rested underneath a layer of boxed mineral samples, and she grabbed those too.
What am I doing? Yain felt as though her heart pounded behind her eyes. Her hands still shook, and she felt on the verge of collapse. If she had ever felt worse, she could not remember it. Somehow she found herself staring not into the crate of weapons but at her discarded survival pack lying halfheartedly to the side. A fine layer of snow had already gathered over the material, making the straps slick and difficult to grasp as she attempted to one-handedly sling it over her shoulder.
Fortunately for her, she was saved from further wrestling with the pack when an abrupt and loud CLANK echoed from the droids’ freighter. Her damp, gloved hands took hold of the launcher as she slowly turned towards the docking ramp. Bright, yellow light flickered on the long, gray durasteel as three large, silver battle droids emerged from the ship, arms raised and glowing. Her mouth dropped and her sob caught in her throat.
This… this is not my day, she despaired.
Yain crouched low behind the crates, ears strained to pick up the whirs and clicks of joints as the droids exited the Corellian vessel. Her instincts suddenly screamed to move, and then she was flying through the air, surrounded by the shattered remains of durasteel crates, mineral samples, and searing hot air.
She hit the ground rolling. Snow clogged her filtration mask and blocked her visor. Her hands slipped in every direction as she struggled to climb out of a snow drift. The world rang in her ears, muted and silent even as the ice shattered around her. Reacting blindly to her situation, she miraculously latched on to what little of the Force she could, and propelled her self out of the hole.
White streaked her vision as she twirled in the air, landing behind a meter high duracrete wall. Pain shot up her limbs and her legs buckled, sending her sprawling to the packed ice. She gasped, forcing her injured back to the wall and cradled the launcher against her chest. Her gloves tore the mask from her face, and then ripped apart one of the spare medpacs she managed to grab earlier. Three short single-use syringes fell into her lap, glinting in the light and swinging from a thin string. With a shaky hand, and one good leg, she managed to peer over the top of the wall. The three droids stood in a line and turned immediately towards her direction.
Unhooking one of the grenades, she activated the small device and hurled it over the wall. The round object bounced over ice covered durasteel and slid to a stop at the legs of the closest droid. Yain dropped behind the wall.
“What that?” a muffled mechanical voice asked.
Then the ground shook violently as chunks of rock and metal debris flew over her head. Blaster shots exploded against the wall and rained bits of broken ice into her face. She yanked another grenade and blindly lobbed it over the wall. Another ground shaking explosion rocked her world, and the firing stopped. The silence stretched on for what felt like hours, but she didn’t trust her self to look over the wall, and lobbed a third fragmentation grenade just to be sure.
Debris fell heavily around her short wall, kicking up loose snow into the air. The freezing temperatures bit at her exposed face. For a moment, the healer could only stare blankly at one of the metal clumps, eventually recognizing it to be the mangled remains of a droid’s head, its faded lights pointed directly at her.
Exhaustion finally caught up. A soft giggled escaped her frozen lips. It nearly escalated to full on hysterics, but the sharp jabs of pain from her back cut her short. The adrenaline of the fight wore out and soon the jabs turned into full on fire. She switched into a clinical state of mind, switching off her tidal waves of emotion, in an effort to quickly assess her physical condition. Blood stained the entirety of her pants from her right thigh downward, and her back screamed with the slightest movement.
Slowly, Yain picked up a painkiller. The liquid sloshed inside the syringe, refracting the light in numerous different colors. Her hands shook fiercely as she struggled to smooth the cloth of her leg and then jammed the needle past the hem, burying the point deep in her thigh. Almost immediately, the fire in her limbs softened.
She then rolled out the blood-loss control agent, followed by a stimulant, and repeated the process two more times. As the meds shifted through her system, Yain focused on breathing. It felt almost as though she were drowning, though she filed that under severe emotional distress.
Oh, she was distressed all right. But she couldn’t sit around and debate her psychological status now. With a grunt, she hooked the medpac to her belt and used the heavy launcher as a crutch to stand.
The spaceport looked little less than the aftermath of war zone, which she supposed was an accurate description. Craters dotted the landing pad, along with ragged chunks of ice, streaks of black fuel, and varying shades of droid parts. But all she could focus on was the Corellian ship’s loading ramp, shining in all its glory directly ahead.
Everything hurt. Everything. But she knew she’d be insane to de-robe and treat her wounds with bacta in this temperature. So she pushed on, the weapon in her hands making soft clunks as she scaled the metal ramp. Her boots left uneven durasteel and stepped onto smoothed grating. Yain paused inside the ship, instantly feeling the ice crystals melt off her cheeks as her eyes burned and adjusted to the fluorescent lights lining the hull.
She could have cried.
“You are not authorized to be here,” shouted a mechanical voice. "Identify yourself"
“Intruder!” exclaimed another. "Eliminate target!"
“Roger roger.”
A blinding white flash overtook her senses and she experienced-with a detached sense of horror-the strange sensation of her chest being blown apart. Her eyes stared blankly at the droids as she bodily fell forward and embraced death.
“Hey wait a second!” gasped the gloved customer. “That’s impossible!”
Yain shrugged, continuing to rub a clean rag against a streaked cup. She paused to admire her handiwork as the red haired customer smacked his hand down on his friend's-brother’s?-shoulder, and silently took note of the few words she could understand
“She jurkadi with us. Your mirshe tay'lud, di’kut?” he asked, voice choked with laughter.
The gloved customer frowned, turning his empty mug in his hands. “Refill, please,” he said finally, apparently ignoring his brother's comment.
“Me too,” said the redhead.
Yain grinned. “Right away, boys.”
The three lapsed into silence as Yain proceeded to mix the drinks. The noise in the cantina only seemed to amplify when she didn’t have a conversation to concentrate on, and the collective voices of a crowd began to give her a migraine. It didn’t help that the Bith band failed to produce adequate music for the night, and instead their instruments belted out what sounded like the dying cries of a neutered bantha.
As she poured the redhead’s juice, and poured Blue Milk into his friend's mug, along with her own, she silently noted that they had taken to talking between themselves in a language she vaguely recognized. Of course, that wasn’t saying much, as she knew more than the occasional multi-lingual expletive and a good amount of Huttese. She decided to feign ignorance and returned to cleaning the mug.
“Tion'solet ca’nara are we go'naasi olar?”
“We can ba'slanar jii, if you copaani.”
“I copaani susulur kyr of gehat'ik.”
“We shi ru'vaabi.”
“She jahaati!”
“…she ge'sol'mesh'la for a kyrayc dala.”
“Gedin'la jahaat'dala.” The gloved man’s frown deepened.
The redhead shrugged in response and picked up his drink, flashing Yain a wide smile before taking a sip. The young woman nodded and peered past the two customers, absently watching the two Twi’lek dancers undulating on their platform as she squashed the urge to ask for them to translate. She had a feeling they were discussing her, and a good part of her didn’t want to know just what they were saying.
“You don’t look dead,” the redhead said suddenly. “Maybe a little on the thin side, but you still look… intact.”
Yain started, nearly dropping her drink, and stared at him. He looked innocent enough, even if the threads in the force whirled around him in a flurry of activity. His eyes glanced down for half a second, and then bounced back to her face. She nearly missed it, but the action was enough to cause her face to suddenly heat up in stunned embarrassment.
Beside him, the gloved man snorted into his mug.
A mixture of emotions bubbled under the surface, and she grasped on to her irritation like a lifeline. The bartender set her Blue Milk down and crossed her arms over her chest, one hand pointed directly at the crimson haired offender. “You. You…” There were no words. Her mind blanked.
The customer in question grinned and turned on his stool, lounging against the bar as he stretched his legs out in front of him.
“Ugubaashi!” slurred a drunken Rodian to her right. “Mee jargaa, pateesha.”
Sensing a convenient outlet for her irritation, Yain embraced the opportunity, though she imagined her once-masters at the Jedi Temple would probably have cringed at the sight before dragging her aside for a lecture on the temptations of the Dark Side. The Rodian squealed under her hands as she hopped over the counter and wrapped her fist in the collar of his shirt.
“What did I say, Remo? What did I say?” She shook him. “Bona nai kachu!”
“H-hii chuba da naga?” gasped Remo as he fell off his stool.
Yain shook him again, and dragged him towards the cantina doors. The crowd parted around her easily, no one bothering to spare a glance in her direction. After all, it was business as usual.
“You’ve had enough, anyway. Get going!” With no aid from any power other than her own hard-worked-for strength, she sent the Rodian flying out of the doors and onto the durasteel walkway outside. “E chu ta,” she spat and walked back inside, dusting her hands as she returned to the bar.
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Possible Points of Reference
Sabacc - a popular card game
Fragmentation Grenade - portable, cheap, explosives
FC-1 Flechette Launcher - projectile launcher
Medpac - first aid kit
Bantha - beasts of burden, found all over the galaxy
Bith - A race of sound sensitive sentients
Rodian - A race of humanoid reptiles
Cantina - the equivalent of a bar or club
Glossary
bishwag - an expletive used to indicate an untrustworthy being
Shuura Juice - juice made from the shuura fruit
koochu - (Huttese) idiot
kriffing - derogatory modifier
Ugubaashi - 'Ukubati' (Huttese) Bartender
Mee jargaa, pateesha. - 'Me yarga, pateesa.' (Huttese) I'm thirsty, sweetie.
Bona nai kachu! - (Huttese) You're in trouble now.
Hi chuba da naga? - (Huttese) What do you want?
E chu ta - (Huttese) offensive expletive
Mando'a
Kaysh jurkadi ti mhi. Gar mirshe tay'lud, di’kut? - She (is) messing around with us. Is your brain taking a nap, idiot?
Tion'solet ca'nara cuyi mhi go'naasi'la olar? - How much time are we wasting here?
Mhi lise ba'slanar jii, meh gar copaani. - We can leave now, if you want.
Ni copaani susulur kyr be gehat'ik. - I want to hear (the) end of (the) story.
Mhi shi ru'vaabi. - We just did.
Kaysh jahaati! - She lies!
Kaysh ge'sol'mesh'la par kyrayc dala. - She's cute for (a) dead woman. (Lit. half beautiful for a...)
Gedin'la jahaat'dala. - Eccentric deceiving woman.